


My Lady

by jackabee



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Artists, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackabee/pseuds/jackabee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The painting is found in August of 1848 by the Austrian army. They take it when they take back Venice, and it languishes in the cellar of an Austrian noble before it is rescued, restored, and taken to be hung in a museum. It is only speculated to be one of your paintings, and if you saw it today you would scream, for the fool who restored it painted over her flaws thinking they were damage."</p><p>Or, how Dirk stopped worrying and painted his Madonna exactly how she appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Lady

Your name is Dirk, and you have always had a fantastic eye for detail. It was how the Master picked you out of all the other boys that clamored for his attention – you, who were born into nothing, who had nothing, who traveled all this way at such a young age so you would not spend your life as nothing – to work at his side, to raise beauty from the empty planes and make a viewer lean close enough to think he could fall into the world you created. Your Master is old, but he is respected, and the patrons that keep bread on his table and clothes on his back line up to consult him, begging for time to sit for portraits and shoving journals into his face recording every brushstroke of a commission.

When you are still a boy, most of what you did was watch as he coaxed out a scene, and as you got older, he allowed you a line here, a smudge there. By the time you are thirteen, he makes you fill in the feathers of a cherub’s wings, and you know you are being used. He squints when he reads by sunlight and lens. He cannot paint tiny things without ruining them, and if he cannot, he will lose his patrons. It fills you with a smug, sick pride that mingles with innocent pity, to see old money striding away with something that came from you as easy as breathing. His style is not difficult for you to emulate. When he does not need you, you become scarce, climbing up trees and into places where you shouldn’t go and sketching the world. You have journal upon journal filled with the faces and bodies of the city, with their pains and joys and private moments. It makes you spent, and when you are spent, you dawdle by the docks and drink with sailors. You let their tales work into your mind like a salve and forget the pain in your wrist that comes from expression.

(Scholars hundreds of years later question whether or not you ever slept with any of those sailors, particularly when they come across the personal accounts of one Capitan Jacob E. and his time in Venice, but you are long dead and would be wary of those who asked. It’s not sodomy if you don’t get caught, after all.)

You are eighteen, and amidst the crowds of folks at market there is a Madonna selling bread at one of the stands. You do not think of women as Madonnas often. It rubs you the wrong way, that any average girl could be elevated to the status given to the Virgin, and how often did your peers sling the term around! It became meaningless on their lips. But this time, you really do think you’ve found one. She is eyes that sparkle like the lagoon in spring and a smile genuine and kind towards all of her patrons. You can see from here that she slips extra bread into the bags of those who have probably never owned a whole ducat in their entire lives. She laughs, she jokes, she is alive in a way that you only ever see in children.

Before you can reign in your senses, you have pushed yourself halfway through the crowds, your eves never leaving her form. Another at the stall, a boy a head taller than herself who must be some sort of relation, notices you first, and while he too is attractive, you are a man driven and shall not be swayed. You go right up to their stall and stare until she turns to meet your gaze, and before she can welcome you, you say, “Let me draw you.”

The Earth does not stop turning. The market still surges behind you. She looks at you with wide eyes and parted lips, shock plain on her face, until she laughs and smiles sadly, sweetly.

“Oh, sir, you flatter me,” She says, and your pride prickles.

“I don’t flatter,” You say, “Please, let me draw you.” You reach into your bag for your journal, but your hand closes only on a stick of charcoal. “Fuck. Uh. You got any paper?”

“Do we look rich to you?” The boy says. He’s got a hand on her shoulder now. He’d better be a relative or by _God_ , you will object so hard to someone touching this Madonna so casually. Up close she is wispy curls and ample curves and your hands twitch at the idea of rendering that in oils by candlelight. You could spend all night perfecting how the shadows would fall.

She in turn pats his hand. “Now, John, he’s only being…polite? I think he’s being polite.” She reaches behind him and snags a lid from a barrel. It smells of baking and is dusted with flour. “Will this do?”

You take it with both hands and nod. She’s humoring you, which means she must be curious about just how loony you are. If your mind wasn’t a mess of lines and shapes you would explain to her that you were four kinds of loony to match Jupiter’s moons, but the chances that she could even read much less study the stars were slim to none. You work fast, because there are mothers jostling you from behind, complaining that if you weren’t going to buy something then you should leave, and the boy is trying to help them but he shoots dirty looks your way. You should move. You’re taking up space. They think you are not worth the space you take up – _fuck_ that, the rich and ignorant think your work is on par with the masters, you can take up as much space as you like.

When the sketch is finished, you are disappointed to find that it looks nothing like her. You frown at it in disappointment, and your thoughts lead you away from the stall, furiously boiling over forms and the shitty combination of charcoal and cheap wood. You do not hear her cry out in surprise.

~*~

Three days later you lounge in the window of your room in your Master’s home, charcoal smudged around your tired eyes and staining your fingers. He’s banished you from his studio today, for he has several patrons with which to converse. He’ll probably have a few new commissions lined up by nightfall, and you’ll be in there for months, painting in his image and his name. You’re going to miss the sun. You’re going to miss watching the traffic in the canal, sparse today as it is.

It’s because it is vacant that you spot her again, and by some miracle, she looks up from the pole clenched in her hands and spots you, too. The Madonna is looking at _you_.

That shock is back on her face, and the smile that follows this time is wide and jubilant. “It’s you!” She exclaims, and her voice is tiny from so far away but it rings clear like a chapel’s bells on a still day. “The artist in the market!”

You smile, and hope you’re not going to make an utter fool of yourself if you open your mouth again. The idea to paint her in oils by candlelight resurfaces. “Well color me surprised. It’s the Madonna of the bread rolls.”

You can see her cheeks turn a brilliant shade of pink even from here. Idly, you wonder if that flush would turn up anywhere else on her body, and how you would best mix paints to render it.

“Oh, hush up! I am not a Madonna!” She says. That, like her assumption of flattery before, smarts, but you’re careful not to let it show this time. You’ll be working nonstop soon, and who knows if she’ll still be alive for you to see her again?

“So you say.” You want to lean out further, but past experience with tumbling down into the canal is fresh in your mind. You were dumb when you were ten. “What brings you here, baker? Trying your hand at peddling door-to-door?”

“Like I would do something that unsafe, sir! I know better.” She drives her pole into the ground, keeping her little boat still. “I’ve been searching this city for you. I want to talk to you about your drawing.”

You allow yourself to raise an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“My father insists you take it back.” You can feel your earlier elation deflating as she continues. “You must understand. We don’t have a lot of money, but the drawing is – it’s magnificent. It’s the loveliest thing we’ve ever seen. Its worth is far beyond us. He would sell it, if it wasn’t…” She looks away now. “Well. If it wasn’t of me.”

A man not keen on the idea of giving away his daughter in any form, eh? At least he knows what he has. If you ever met him in person you would do anything to shake his hand. And yet, with such a predicament, you see a way to twist it in your favor.

“Sure. I could take it back.” Relief floods her features, and you almost feel sorry for what you’re going to do. You didn’t think the sketch was very good in the first place. “But like you said, its worth is immense. If I’m gonna do something for you, don’t you think you should return the favor?”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing much. I said I wanted to draw you in the market. If I take back the drawing, I’d like to paint you this time.” She presses her mouth into a thin line as you continue. “You’ll pose how I want, when I want. I can make your face immortal. How about it?”

She huffs. It’s a little sound that you barely notice. “I’ll be missed, you know.”

“Then come at night, when you won’t be.”

~*~

Surprisingly, your Master insists on taking the next commissions on himself, and leaves you to your devices. You stay in your room anyway. By day you sleep, and by night she comes to you, wrapped in a cloak of darkness and a covered basket in her arms. It is filled with day old bread that nobody had bought.

“It’s all we really have to spare,” She had said the first night. You didn’t question it. She was being hospitable. The bread was damn good, too, tasty and a piece of art in its own right.

Every night, before you began your work, you would let her talk. It seemed to help calm her nerves, to chat about everything and nothing in a way that would usually irritate you. But strangely enough, you find yourself enamored with her daily life. You learn that her name is Jane, that her family came up from Naples two generations ago and they owned a bakery that was her pride and joy. You learn that the John at the stall was her brother, and you breathe a sigh of relief at that, for it’s a brother’s place to be close to his sister, Madonna or not. You learned she could read the Bible, if anything.

She says all this as you set up your materials for the night. You light enough candles to work by, you prepare your canvas, you obsessively position your paints within reach. The first nights are for sketching, so you have some sort of guideline to work with, but every morning after she leaves you paint over your work, extremely unsatisfied. You don’t like how you depict the curve of her cheeks one time. The next, her nose is crooked and her eyes strange. It is three in the morning and she has fallen asleep where you have her seated when you throw down your tools in disgust, and she wakes up bleary and frightened. You let her take the next night off to make up for it, and find you cannot sleep that day, so consumed you are by your process.

When she returns again, you have made up your mind. “I want to try something new,” You tell her. Her latest offering, something cakelike with a honey glaze and a hint of citrus, has already been cut into pieces, one halfway eaten and lingering in your hands. It’s still sticky. Still warm. “No more horsing around with sketching. I’ll paint you right onto the canvas.” A pause. You take another bite – it really is warm, wow, there is no way this could be left over from the morning. “I’ll paint you like Venus.”

She blinks. “Like – like who?”

“Venus. Roman goddess of love and beauty.” It’s definitely rude to talk with your mouth full, but you can’t be bothered to care. “You ever pass by that ridiculous mansion owned by some French family? Who’re they, the Lalondes?”

Jane nods curtly. “I’ve seen it from afar.”

“You ever look into that huge main window of theirs? They have a lot of gall, putting their wealth out there like that, but if you look beyond all the ridiculous French crap, they’ve got this huge painting on the far wall of Venus and her acolytes.” Your words would seem begrudging and jealous if you did not speak with such enthusiasm.

She flushes, and you note that you can see it tinge her ears and press her throat. “I _have_ seen it! She’s stark naked – oh, heavens, you don’t mean-”

“Why not?” You ask, and lean closer. “I’ve seen ‘em done before. What you’ve got isn’t new to me, Jane. You agreed you’d pose how I want you to, and if you back out I’m going to make sure the barrel top drawing never leaves your house.”

It’s an empty threat. You can’t really make her family keep it. But her flush turns scarlet and she pouts and it does amazing things for her face. “Well, if you’re going to be difficult, then fine!”

You are a gracious host and turn away as she strips, much more concerned with your paints. It was true, you had seen your master paint many a Venus, and while it would probably be wrong to portray the Madonna in this way, part of you wants to see the form under her clothes. Perhaps, if you knew that, you could better understand how the fabric drapes.

After some time you are sure she is ready, and turn around to face her. What you find is your model wrapped tightly in your bed sheet. It clings pleasingly to her curves, but the lack of skin is frustrating to your sensibilities.

“Uh, Jane?” You gesture to her. “What’s with this?”

“Just – just give me a moment,” She breathes, and you notice that she is shaking. “I just need a moment.”

It occurs to you that your request may have hit a sore spot.

You abandon your paints and canvas to stand before her. Not in front of her, before her. You are the artist, but she is the subject, and she is far more important, for without her there is no art to make.

“What’s wrong?” You ask. She does not answer right away, nor do you press her to. It takes ages before you get a response.

“It…it’s wrong,” She says softly. “It would be wrong for me to – to be naked! With a man I’m only acquainted with at best!”

“Yeah, no shit,” You say, “But other people do it. I don’t see the problem.” Her eyes glare up at you, and their stare makes you take a step back.

“I don’t understand you at all,” She says, “You come into my life from nowhere and all you want is my face on a piece of paper! I don’t see why, I’m not – I’m not…” Her eyes are wet, and she wipes them with your sheet. “I’m not worth painting. I’m not _beautiful_. If I was I’d already be married.”

She says it in such a way that makes your head spin. She is an innocent at heart, that you know and that you expected. All virgins are. But yet it baffles you, how someone could not see what you see in them, that they could outright deny it when it looked you in the face and you showed it right back to them-

And then you are hit with a quiet revelation. You have showed Jane every sketch you’ve finished of her, and she’s praised it, but you hated them all. You hated how unlike her they were. You rack your brain and think back to all the women you’ve painted for your Master, how they had moles and blotches and other unique things that made them interesting, and how no matter how lovingly you rendered them in your earlier years, your Master would paint over them. He never could stand for imperfections, and as you got older you would draw back from depicting them. You weren’t painting the truth at all.

It burns to know it, but you take that burn and let it fuel your desire to paint your Madonna. Yes, yours – not the Master’s, not her father’s or brother’s. You would show the world for ages to come just what made her your Madonna, but most importantly, you would show her.

Your hands rest lightly on hers as they clutch the sheet. “An artist,” You say slowly, “Doesn’t make beauty out of nothing. They take beauty from what they already see. Can they enhance it? Yeah, and they do. Often. But sometimes they just want to show something for what it is.” Your hands move to her shoulders, and you know just this is too intimate for artist and subject, but you obsess over her. You pray in the evenings and think of her in your Hail Marys. “I think there’s something to see in what you are. Give me this chance, Jane. Please.”

Slowly, she lets go of the sheet, and you take this as permission to let it fall to the floor. You feel your breath hitch in your throat rather than hear it because God, _God_ , you do not need to go to Heaven when you die because you have already seen it. She is smooth and soft everywhere, you don’t even need to touch her to know that, and her body is shadowed hills and stripes to show where she grew up too fast. The stripes would not suit a Venus, but then again, she is not a Venus. And now you know exactly where she flushes.

You make it a point to talk to her as you work, to keep her from thinking too hard, and you paint long into the night. You do not destroy this night’s work. When the next comes, you continue it. And then again, the next night, and the next. You let your eye for detail overtake the things your Master would want you to do. You’re not painting for him, or for patrons. You paint for you.

It takes a month of this before you finish, which is the shortest amount of time you’ve ever worked on a piece, but it feels the most finished and the most perfect. When you show it to Jane, she’s speechless. She stares at it like it could swallow her whole, and asks, “Is that really me?”

“It looks like you,” You say. Pride will be your downfall, for it surges through every fiber of your being. It really does resemble her, more than the barrel top sketch that now hangs above your bed. She is bare to the world, and yet more a Madonna in your eyes than any that hang before the Lord. You don’t know how you could let her know that other than with this painting.

She doesn’t reach out to touch it, but she begins to cry, and you wrap her up in your bed sheet and hold her tight. When she doesn’t pull away, you kiss the crown of her head.

(The painting is found in August of 1848 by the Austrian army. They take it when they take back Venice, and it languishes in the cellar of an Austrian noble before it is rescued, restored, and taken to be hung in a museum. It is only speculated to be one of your paintings, and if you saw it today you would scream, for the fool who restored it painted over her flaws thinking they were damage.

At least they know the next one is from you, the one that finds its way donated to a museum in the United States by the last member of the Lalonde family line with your signature in orange in a corner. At least that painting has every single detail intact. You would literally kill someone if it didn’t. It took nine months to get right.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly me being self-indulgent, and if I continued on it would have become even moreso. That said, I haven't felt inspired like this in a long time. It's a good feeling, to want to write whatever comes to mind again.


End file.
